


And Also, I Love You

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Plays Guitar, Declarations Of Love, Derek With Cats, Derek and Stiles are Dorks, Derek and Stiles are the Same Age, Derek sings, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Marijuana, One Shot, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Punk Derek, Recreational Drug Use, References to Marvel, References to Supernatural (TV), Roommates, Stiles with cats, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek didn’t look at all like Stiles expected. After all, he deliberately chose a school where being a nerd was cool, so he certainly wasn’t expecting his hotter-than-a-thousand-stars roomie to be an actual cool person. Derek has muscles, like everywhere, which he has a tendency to display in skin-tight, sleeveless t-shirts for bands Stiles has never heard of; his jeans are always tight and ripped too, and he has an impressive five-o’clock shadow, the tips of his jet-black hair dyed purple. And his eyes. Stiles is pretty sure he’s only seen eyes like that in comics, or on a movie screen, or in his freakin dreams. They’re somehow simultaneously all of the colors and none of them, transcending something so pedestrian and insignificant as words to encapsulate their beauty. Stiles would come to learn that he's also wickedly smart, and he plays the guitar and speaks multiple languages, and his sunshine smile is even more alarming that his resting murder face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Also, I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt that got a little long! From the super rad [secretallie](): 
> 
>  
> 
> _How about unintentional fake relationship? Like Stiles and Derek become so close that everybody assumes they're a couple, and they're too busy pining and being oblivious to even notice, let alone correct, that assumption._
> 
>  
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this!! Herein lies excessive use of italics and parentheses and gratuitous fandom references. This fic also switches POV between Stiles and Derek, which is indicated by section breaks.
> 
> Title (and a brief quote) from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and for your kudos and lovely comments!! XOXO

Stiles can’t believe his luck. Not only did he manage to earn a highly competitive scholarship to one of the best private liberal arts colleges in the country, but also, his roommate freshman year is Derek Hale.

Derek Hale is _the best._

(And Derek Hale is also _extremely attractive._ Hot like burning. The temperature of the sun. A perfect specimen of masculine beauty. The alpha and the omega, the be-all-and-end-all of hotness).

Stiles works very, very hard not to notice that ( _like that’s even possible_ ) because they’re roommates, and more importantly, they’re friends. Like _best_ friends, even though Scott will always be his _best_ best friend. 

Stiles had been worried at first, on move-in day at the highly-coveted on-campus co-op that came with his scholarship, when he found his assigned room and toppled in loaded with bags and came eye-to-eye with the prettiest and grumpiest face he had ever seen. (And he once walked in on Jackson Whittemore giving a blowjob at a party junior year, so he knows all about pretty, angry faces).

Derek didn’t look at all like Stiles expected. After all, he deliberately chose a school where being a nerd was cool, so he certainly wasn’t expecting his hotter-than-a-thousand-stars roomie to be _an actual cool person_. Derek has muscles, like _everywhere_ , which he has a tendency to display in skin-tight, sleeveless t-shirts for bands Stiles has never heard of; his jeans are always tight and ripped too, and he has an impressive five-o’clock shadow, the tips of his jet-black hair dyed purple. And his _eyes_. Stiles is pretty sure he’s only seen eyes like that in comics, or on a movie screen, or in his freakin _dreams_. They’re somehow simultaneously all of the colors and none of them, transcending something so pedestrian and insignificant as _words_ to encapsulate their beauty. Stiles would come to learn that he's also wickedly smart, and he plays the guitar and speaks multiple languages, and his sunshine smile is even more alarming than his resting murder face.

(Stiles tries, at night when he can’t sleep, not allowing himself to stare through the dark at Derek stretched out on his belly, one bare foot always sticking out of the covers, to think of ways to describe his eyes. _Gold-threaded viridescent sapphire_ is his current favorite.)

So Derek is intimidatingly cool and intimidatingly hot and Stiles had stuttered and stumbled through their first meeting, awkward and flailing, Derek’s thick black eyebrows furrowing. And Stiles’ stomach had twisted, dreading the coming year with a roommate who was entirely too hip for him and who likely hated him on sight just like every other cool beautiful person he’d ever met.

But then, _then_ , Derek unpacked a framed – _like_ , _professionally framed_ – fanart print of Steve Rogers going down on Bucky Barnes and Stiles gasped and grinned in surprise and absolute _glee_. They started talking comics and the MCU and it turned out, Derek Hale is a hipster punk, but he’s also a total _geek_.

Derek Hale is _awesome_.

________________________________

 

Derek can’t believe his luck. Not only did get stuck in with a roommate when he was promised a single room in the Wharton Co-op (which he only got a spot in at all because Laura had lived here and still had friends on the selection committee), but his roommate is Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles Stilinski is _the worst_.

(And by the worst, he means _the absolute best_ , because he’s funny and so damn smart and never shuts up but that’s okay because Derek loves everything he says even when it’s nonsense and he’s so, so beautiful it makes his heart _ache_.)

And he’s the best friend Derek’s ever had.

Derek was stunned when Stiles stumbled in their room on move-in day, giant brown eyes bright and glittering, cheeks ruddy and spotted with tender beauty marks, which Derek has always kinda had a _thing_ for. And Derek has also always has a thing for lean-muscled wiry guys, and damn it, Stiles is just his type, and it's so, so not fair.

(He’s learned new fixations too, thanks to Stiles. Hands, for instance, big ones with too-long fingers, and cupid’s bow lips and incessant chatter about anything and everything as long as it’s tumbling from _that mouth_.)

After their tense initial meeting they talked about shipping Stucky but still liking Steggy and Winter Widow too, and well, they’ve kinda been inseparable ever since. They bonded over being west-coast boys displaced in the foreign land of Vermont (Stiles is from a small town in northern California, Derek from Portland), and finally being rid of high school, where they were both the only out bisexual guys they knew. They spent orientation week together, and even have an English class together. Derek tags along with Stiles to join the Comics Club, and they both sign up to help out with events at the Q Center. Derek joins a band with his new friends Erica and Boyd, who he met at a coffee shop near campus, and Stiles joins the literary magazine and they’re not _always_ together, but they do spend most of their time with one another. They’re roommates, after all.

And best friends. Derek has friends back home, of course, but he’s always been closest with his sisters, and he's never connected with anyone the way he connects with Stiles, whose mouthy sarcasm resonates perfectly with his own dry wit. They like so many of the same things, even if Stiles does have terrible taste in music. He more than makes up for that flaw by having incredible taste in tv shows and movies and books and comics and fitted sweaters that hug his lithe torso. Derek feels _comfortable_ with Stiles, more comfortable than he’s ever felt with anyone, including his family, and definitely more than anyone he’s ever dated. He’s never had a friend like him, which is exactly why he probably shouldn't date him. His friendship means more to him than anything, and he’s so scared to put that at risk.

And besides, he’s not even sure Stiles likes him like that.

(Sure, sometimes he catches Stiles _looking_ , but a lot of people _look_ at Derek that way. That doesn’t mean anything.) 

Besides, how weird would it be to date his roommate? That’s jumping ahead so many steps in a relationship it might as well be an arranged marriage, and Derek is pretty sure neither of them are ready for something like that.

So he’s okay with just being his friend, because being friends with Stiles is awesome. So what if he’s distractingly gorgeous and Derek takes extra long showers in their en suite bathroom so he can finger himself while imagining Stiles fucking him, biting his bottom lip raw so he doesn’t moan his name too loudly.

No one has to know about his crush, and everything is totally okay.

 **~*~**

Everything is okay, and Derek’s totally not annoyed when Stiles tells him that he’s bailing on their weekly tradition of cooking homemade pad Thai in the house’s giant kitchen and watching the newest episode of Supernatural.

Because he has a date. 

“This guy Jordan, he’s a sophomore, in my ancient Greek history class,” he tells him, blushing prettily. “He’s really cute, and I have no idea why he asked me out, but we’re going to dinner.” Stiles is jittery and nervous and Derek _hates_ it, because it’s not for him. 

“Sounds like fun,” he manages to get out, leaning back on his bed, pointedly staring at his laptop, _not_ surreptitiously watching Stiles change his shirt for what has to be the tenth damn time, each time that lovely, pale, mole-dotted back is revealed sending thrums of greedy want straight to his cock.

“Dates are so weird, don’t you think?” Stiles chatters on. “I mean, I don’t have _a ton_ of experience or anything, but just like, the concept of a date is so weird. Like a job interview but a thousand times worse because the other person is deciding if you’re like, worthy to touch their junk.” 

Derek chokes back a strangled noise. “Yeah, well, it’s that or what? Sleep with your friends?”

Stiles pokes his head through the red v-neck he’s already tried on twice, messing up his hair ( _again_ ), and stares at him from across the room, features cast in bewilderment and confusion, and Derek bites his tongue. _Fuck_. Stiles’ lack of brain-to-mouth filter must be contagious.

He doesn’t say anything though, just goes back to turning in circles in front of the mirror on the inside of his closet door, trying to look good for stupid sophomore Jordan Parrish. _You don’t have to try, you’re always perfect_ , Derek wants to say, that, and _stay. With me. Forever._

“What about you?”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’ve got people throwing themselves at your feet, dude, what with your…” Stiles waves vaguely in his direction. “Everything. Met anyone worthy to touch your junk?" 

Derek snorts out a humorless laugh. “There’s this girl in my Soc class who asked me out,” he shrugs, leaving out the part where he gently turned Braeden down, even though, before Stiles, he would have jumped at the chance to go out with a gorgeous, smart woman like her.

“Cool,” Stiles says softly, eyes flitting towards his in the mirror, tugging on his hair, seemingly even more anxious now than he was just a minute ago. God, this Jordan jerk must be really, really hot. “You should totally do that. And, uh…feel free to sexile me if you need some privacy. I can always sleep on the couch in the living room if you ever want to have her over…or you know, anyone.” He shrugs, cheeks pinking even more, and Derek has to look away.

He tightens a fist in the blankets, trying not to sound too strained when he grunts a barely-verbal reply. “Yeah, you too.”

Stiles’ phone dings with a text alert, and he jumps about a foot into the air. “Oh god, he’s downstairs.” He yanks the red v-neck off again – Derek is grateful, because he looks especially comely in red, and Jordan the Jerk doesn’t deserve such beauty. _And_ he gets to see again the surprisingly thick line of dark hair that runs from his belly button down to disappear under the dark boxers peeking out just above the waistband of his khakis. Stiles throws on his black Oxford shirt and Derek groans internally, because _shit_. Doesn’t he own _any_ unflattering clothes?

“Have a good night,” Stiles calls out, grabbing his coat and darting out the door before Derek can respond.

**~*~**

Derek is still awake, watching old episodes of Parks and Rec on his laptop and smoking a contraband joint when Stiles comes home, _alone thank god_ , and not as late as Derek was painfully anticipating.

“How’d it go?” he asks, passing him the joint, impressed with how unaffected and only-kinda interested he manages to sound.

Stiles accepts it gratefully, letting the tips of his fingers brush over his, and Derek tries to hide his shiver of pleasure. “All right, I guess.”

“You guess?” Derek hopes he doesn’t sound too relieved by Stiles’ less than-stellar-enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, he’s a nice guy and all.” Stiles shrugs, unbuttoning his shirt. The only light in the room is the prismatic glow cast by the Christmas lights Stiles insists on keeping up around his bed and the faint glow of Derek’s laptop screen. Stiles looks so insanely sexy right now, rainbow lights dancing across the skin he’s slowly revealing as he absentmindedly undresses, smoke curling around him in tantalizing, beckoning waves. “Smart, and really good-looking,” he goes on, handing the joint back and rising to walk to his closet. “But I don’t know, we don’t really have all that much in common. I just didn’t feel…a spark? A connection? That probably sounds pretty lame, huh?”

“Not at all. I understand completely.”

“What are you watching?” Stiles tosses his shirt towards his clothes hamper, mostly missing and not caring. In the dark, Derek feels brave enough to watch his hands work the button of his pants.

“Parks and Rec. I haven’t watched the new ep of Supernatural yet. I dvr’d it for you.”

Stiles looks up from tying the drawstring of his pajama pants, still shirtless, smile glowing supernova-bright in the dim room. “Bitch,” he quips in his best Dean voice.

“Jerk,” Derek snaps right back, grinning and reaching for the tv remote. 

________________________________

 

Stiles knows that Derek is a dog person, but he seems like the type of guy who can’t resist an adorable face, so he’s pretty sure he won’t mind the two cats he just _has_ to adopt when he passes by the humane society’s adoption van while walking home from his favorite coffee shop.

Stiles is beginning to think that he perhaps misjudged Derek on this count though, judging by the heavy furrow of his brows when he walks into their room to find him sitting cross-legged on his bed, playing with the two six-month old kittens, one a gray tabby, the other nearly all black except for a vaguely tree-shaped spot of white on her belly.

“We’re not supposed to have pets in the house,” Derek says, eyeing the kittens suspiciously, but still stepping forward to offer a hand for the little gray one to sniff. “Did you get the okay from Greenberg?” 

Stiles tries not to squeal in utter delight (okay fine, maybe he’s _swooning_ ) at the sight of Derek, smiling softly now, wide mouth framed so sweet by his scruffy dimples, letting the kitten lick his hand. “Fortunately, our fearless co-op leader is a cat person,” Stiles explains. “And I only had to promise that we would take over all kitchen cleaning duties for two months in exchange for him not ratting us out to Housing.”

“We? Us?” Derek asks, eyebrows practically up in his hair, the tips turquoise these days. The kitten has his tiny little paws hooked around his wrist now, and Derek finally relents and scoops him up one-handed, sitting down on Stiles’ bed and cradling him to his chest, seemingly unconcerned with the swaths of hair the little beast is sure to leave all over his snug black v-neck, Stiles’ favorite shirt of his.

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, feeling his cheeks grow hot. He hadn’t intended to mislead Greenberg into thinking that he and Derek got the kittens together, but he had just assumed and the dude has always seemed to like Derek way more than him anyways, so Stiles had just gone with it. “You two are ridiculous,” Greenberg said, rolling his eyes and barely looking up from his hookah as Stiles stood at the door of his single room, clutching the kittens and silently admonishing them to look their cutest. “They’ll help with the mouse problem in the basement,” Stiles had added, before Greenberg made him promise that he and Derek would take on more chores.

“Did you already name them?” Derek asks now.

“I was thinking Rocket for that guy,” he smiles, gesturing at the kitty in Derek’s arms. “And Groot for this little monster,” he adds, rolling her over to show him the tree on her belly.

Derek laughs and looks at him quizzically. “I thought Groot was a dude?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and rubs Groot’s tummy. “Groot transcends gender, Der.” Derek laughs as Rocket crawls up his shirt to whisker at his jaw, tiny tongue rasping loudly on his almost-beard, and Stiles absolutely _melts_. On the inside, of course.

“Greenberg says since we’re roommates they’re your responsibility too,” Stiles winces, partly in awkward nerves and the unbearable cuteness of _Derek and kittens_ , and partly because Groot is jamming her little snake-tooth into the pad of his thumb. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “You don’t have to do anything though, they can just be mine.”

“They can be ours,” Derek says shyly, smiling big now.

**~*~**

A few days later Stiles comes home from a lit magazine meeting to find Derek, in his workout clothes – low-slung nylon basketball shorts and a threadbare white tank top – stretched out asleep on the couch in the living room, Rocket and Groot curled into snoring, purring little kitten-balls on his broad chest.

It’s – fuck, it’s unfathomably adorable, unbearably sweet, heartbreakingly cute – _perfect_. Stiles quietly snaps a pic and posts it to Instagram with the caption **Rocket and Groot have found their Star-Lord** , and he’s not at all surprised that it gets dozens of likes within minutes. Gods, they'd be Tumblr famous if he posted it to their blog ( _yeah, they started fandom blog together, whatever_ ). Stiles stares at the pic while he wanders to the kitchen in search of food. _Hashtag hot boy with cats. Hashtag beards and kittens. Hashtag how did I get so lucky?_

He _is_ surprised, though, when Lydia Martin, who he dated briefly in high school and who he’s still good friends with, comments on the pic. **Does that make you Gamora? I bet you succumb to his pelvic sorcery all the time.**

Stile laughs, _I wish_ , he thinks, grateful that Derek doesn’t have Instagram.

And so what if he doesn’t correct her? A boy can dream, right?

**~*~**

The following weekend is Derek’s first show with his new band, just an open-mike night at an all-ages bar in what passes for downtown in their tiny college town, but Stiles is there, with reinforcements: Allison and Kira, who live down the hall from them, and Danny and Ethan from the Q Center, and a couple of people from the Comics Club he wheedled into showing up. The bar is pretty crowded as it is, so Stiles probably didn’t need to worry so much about bringing a contingent of listeners (he was worried, all right, that there would be no one there to support Derek and that prospect was simply unacceptable).

Stiles doesn’t know shit about music, even though Derek has been trying to teach him, but their band is good, he thinks, and the rest of the crowd seems to think so too. Derek plays lead guitar and sings back up, his voice throaty and warm and blending nicely with Erica’s rich, deep wail. He even sings one song all by himself – an acoustic cover of “Howlin’ for You” – and Stiles thinks his eyes flit towards him in the crowd while he plays, smiling even as his brows bunch together in concentration.

Afterwards everyone takes off, but Stiles lingers, waiting for Derek to finish helping Erica and Boyd pack up their equipment so they can walk home together. Erica, still wearing her stage outfit, cheetah-print leggings and an exceptionally flattering black silk corset, sidles up next to him in the long, dark hallway that leads to the back exit where Derek and Boyd are loading amps into Boyd’s van. “It was so sweet of you to come, Stiles, and to bring so many friends,” she smiles, perfectly-painted red lips curling alluringly. Stiles is suddenly very glad she and Boyd are engaged, because otherwise, _wow_ , he would be insanely jealous of Derek hanging out with her.

“You guys were great,” he tells Erica. “And of course I’d come support Derek.” That’s just what best friends do, after all.

Erica laughs and nudges him in the ribs with an elbow. “You two are so adorable.” She leans and plants a loud kiss on his cheek, surely leaving a lipstick mark. “He’s lucky to have you.” She saunters away in her terrifying stiletto boots before Stiles has a chance to ask what exactly she means by that, but it doesn’t matter, because Derek walks up then, smiling at him, and as usual when that happens, the rest of the world just kinda fades away.

**________________________________**

 

“Gods, Halloween is so overrated,” Stiles groans, lying on his stomach on the floor between their beds, facing away from him, teasing Groot with a sparkly stuffed mouse as they listen to another drunken holler from outside.

Derek glares down from his desk, eyes tracking brazenly over Stiles’ ass, cupped tight in a new pair of jeans. “I like it,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away to go back to gchatting with Laura, who’s telling him about her Daenerys costume, each detail making him more wistful, Rocket purring in his lap.

“You do?” Stiles grunts, twisting around to look at him, eyes narrow in suspicion, like he thinks Derek’s tricking him or something.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite holiday, actually. My sisters and I always dress up in group costumes and go to parties.” He shrugs, embarrassed at how sad he is that this is his first Halloween without Laura and Cora, who’s dressing up as Arya Stark. Derek would have been a Direwolf. 

“Unacceptable!” Stiles announces, rolling over and bouncing to his feet with his weirdly elegant Gumby-grace. “No sads allowed on your favorite holiday.”

“I’m not sad, Stiles,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes and clutching the cat closer.

“Yeah, okay, big guy, you don’t fool me.” He scoops Rocket from his lap – Derek absolutely _does not_ gasp almost-inaudibly when Stiles' fingers – _his fingers_ – accidentally brush across his thighs. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, just deposits the cat on Derek’s bed and then pulls him to his feet by his wrists. “There’s that party at Houghton House that Kira and Allison went to. Let’s throw a costume together and go check it out, okay?”

**~*~**

And _that’s_ how they end up winning second place for their Dean and Castiel outfits in the couples costume contest, _which they didn’t even enter_.

Stiles, still wearing Cas’ signature blue tie and the trench coat they stole from Greenberg’s closet, saunters up to him with their winnings, a bottle of Fireball whiskey and a plastic trick-or-treat jack o’lantern filled with candy, condoms, and lube. “Uh, congrats,” he laughs nervously, offering him the bottle.

Derek takes a long swig, the sweet burn of the cinnamon masking the taste of the cheap whiskey. Over Stiles’ shoulder, he thinks he sees Allison, in her first-place (solo category) Peggy Carter costume, wink and smile at him, but he can’t be sure, because it’s dark and smoky and Stiles is standing _close_ , to be heard over the music, of course.

“Too bad we didn’t have any blue contacts,” Stiles jokes. “We might have come in first if it weren’t for my very non-angelic brown eyes.” He takes a gulp of the Fireball, wincing slightly, then pops a lollipop from the jack o’lantern into his mouth.

“Your eyes are amazing,” Derek mutters, counting on the music to hide it, only except, it totally _doesn’t_ and Stiles _hears_ him, his amazing eyes going wide.

“Uh, thanks dude,” he mumbles, further loosening his – Castiel’s – tie (pilfered from Mason’s closet across the hall). “You make a really good Dean.”

Derek grabs awkwardly for the bottle. It’s going to be a long night.

________________________________

 

“It’s been almost a month since Halloween, and you _still_ don’t want to drink?” Derek asks him, incredulity written all over his now-actually bearded (and somehow even more perfect) face as he holds up two magnums of red wine in the grocery store. Stiles’ stomach twists with phantom nausea at being reminded of his post-Halloween hangover, which found he and Derek taking their relationship to the next level: simultaneous puking. Derek seems to have recovered, although Stiles is still firmly committed to never drinking again.

“More for me then,” Derek smirks, placing the bottles in their cart and, then adding two more. “Just in case you change your mind,” he says with a wink, charming as fuck, _as usual_ , both of them knowing from experience that Derek’s fake ID will work without a hitch.

Stiles follows him around the packed store, filled with day-before-Thanksgiving shoppers like themselves, cursing the fates for the billionth time that Derek is his roommate and his best friend. It’s not like even thinks Derek would actually want to date him – why would he, when he could literally have anyone he wants, looking the way he does – but even if he did, Stiles has no idea how to go from friends to more, especially when his friendship with Derek is so important to him. And to Derek too, he knows. Derek confided in him not long after Halloween that he’s never had a real best friend before Stiles, and fuck, he was so sweet and tender and _blushing_ when he said it Stiles nearly wept from how badly he wanted to kiss him. But he didn’t, because he's not sure if he should risk something going wrong and ruining everything. He can’t imagine ever not wanting to be Derek’s friend, no matter what might happen between them romantically, but Derek might not feel the same way, and Stiles would never forgive himself if he made Derek so uncomfortable or upset that he didn't want to be friends with him anymore.

So he still works to ignore his attraction and his growing affection for him. He even tried going a date. Jordan was great – smart and funny, even though he wasn’t into comics – he hadn’t even seen The Avengers – and he was unequivocally hot. So hot that Stiles was still kinda expecting it to be some kind of fraternity prank even as Jordan held his chair out for him at the restaurant. The kind of hot Stiles definitely would have drooled over, once upon a time, before Derek.

Derek, who he couldn’t stop thinking about even as he tried to get to know Jordan. Derek, who totally would have gotten his Buffy references instead of just smiling politely and nodding. Derek, who Stiles also couldn’t stop _talking_ about to Jordan, which he didn’t realize just how much he had been until Jordan didn’t even try to kiss him goodnight, saying instead, with complete sincerity, “have a nice evening with Derek, Stiles.”

“I actually prefer the canned cranberry sauce to fresh stuff. Is that weird?” Derek asks, jarring him from his daydreams, standing next to the cart with a can in his giant hand, close enough that Stiles can smell his soap. Which, okay, he smells it every morning in the shower, but it’s _different_ , that rich woodsy smell _on Derek’s skin and in his chest hair, oh gods_.

“Huh? Uh, yeah, but you’re a weirdo, so no surprise there. I have no opinion on cranberry sauce. I don’t eat cooked fruit, remember?”

“Yeah, and I’m the weirdo,” Derek smirks, placing the can in the cart and pulling him along.

They had been commiserating this morning about not going home for Thanksgiving, the break from school too short to make it worth dealing with cross country holiday travel. The co-op house was already abandoned so they decided to have their own Thanksgiving, just the two of them. Why not? They both like to cook and the house has a great, huge kitchen. Stiles isn’t disappointed at all to be spending his first Thanksgiving away from home with just Derek. Derek seems pretty happy about their plan too, which Stiles freakin’ _loves_ , because happy, lighthearted Derek is a sight to behold, humming to himself as he shops, throwing more food than they’ll ever need into their cart.

It turns out to be a good thing Derek buys so much, because a sudden snow storm cancels a bunch of flights, and Allison and Kira return in pouting huffs on Wednesday night, and then Thanksgiving morning Erica and Boyd and their friend Isaac show up too, the roads too dangerous to risk their drive to Boston to see Boyd’s family.

So that’s how he and Derek end up hosting their ( _first?_ ) Thanksgiving dinner. It goes astounding well – even though Stiles messed up his mother’s stuffing recipe because he forgot to buy water chestnuts, probably because he was distracted by the holey purple cardigan Derek was wearing when they were at the store.

But it’s fun and relaxed, everyone but Stiles drinking, and everyone smoking, gathering around the coffee table in the living room after dinner to play rowdy games of Cards Against Humanity and Trivial Pursuit, a Derek-built fire crackling cozily in the fireplace.

“This is so great, Stiles.” Allison coos, sneaking up behind Stiles in the kitchen and wrapping her arms around his waist in a firm hug. “Thank you. You and Derek saved Thanksgiving.”

"Sounds like a children's book," he laughs and pats her hand on his stomach, squirming free from her hug to start cutting the pies ( _cooked fruit, ugh_ ) they bought and the chocolate cake they made.

“Don’t forget the ice cream we got,” Derek calls out from the living room, voice so dreamy and thick with wine and weed, and it makes Stiles shiver, makes him want to drink him up, and fuck, that's a hell of of a thought to have about your roommate, isn't it?

Allison is laughing prettily, looking through the freezer for the ice cream. “You two are so domestic and sweet. Seriously, Stiles, this is almost as good as being at home. You guys remind me of my dads. The perfect couple."

Stiles can’t correct her, ( _doesn't want to_ ), distracted as he is, wondering when exactly he fell so completely in love with his best friend.

**________________________________  
**

 

It’s the last day of classes before winter break, and Stiles is exhausted, so exhausted that when they meet in the student union coffee shop before their English class Stiles drags Derek over to the lounge with the giant fireplace and the couches that there are very strict rules about not sleeping on. 

“I didn’t finish the reading,” Stiles says listlessly, falling to the shabby couch closest to the fireplace. “I was up until four finishing that paper for my history class.” He’s got dark circles under his eyes and Derek knows his hair is unwashed under his black beanie, and – _what?_ – he’s wearing Derek’s purple cardigan, the one with the huge hole in the left elbow, and looks utterly _delectable._

He joins him on the couch, setting his coffee on the floor and retrieving The History of Love from his bag. “We have an hour until class. You can read now.”

“Too sleepy,” he mumbles, letting his head fall to rest on Derek’s shoulder. Derek tenses immediately, then tries to relax. It’s not like this is the first time Stiles has touched him, or that they’ve even done something that can only be described as _cuddling_.

(Stiles lost the hdmi cable to the tv, so when they watch Netflix now they have to huddle around one of their laptops. Whatever, it's totally not a big deal.)

“Read to me,” Stiles asks, snuggling up closer, nuzzling into his shirt.

“Okay,” Derek breathes, hard and sharp, working very hard to control his racing heart.

He’s not sure where Stiles left off in the novel, so he just guesses based on where he thinks he might be, reading quietly (“part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you”) so as not to disturb all of the other tired students lounging around. He reads for a while, Stiles’ loose-limbed warmth melting into his side, finally pausing when he thinks Stiles has fallen asleep.

“I’m awake,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I like listening to you. You give good voice.” 

Before Derek can respond, or even try to grapple with what _that_ means, someone steps close to them, pulling his attention away from the book and how wonderfully sexy Stiles’ sounds.

“Hey Derek,” Braeden says, smiling, assessing gaze studying Stiles, stretched out on the couch, head tucked under Derek’s arm and resting against his chest ( _hey, when did that happen?_ ). He feels Stiles stiffen against him as he looks up at her, his mouth dropping open.

“Hi Braeden,” Derek smiles, not moving his arm from where it’s been resting comfortably, without his knowledge, apparently, around Stiles’ shoulders, hand resting on his lower back.

“So he’s the reason you turned me down, huh?” She gives Stiles another once over, smiling this time. “I can see why. Happy holidays,” she says with a wink, sauntering away.

Derek is flushing with embarrassment when Stiles pushes himself up to face him, completely at a loss for what to say. 

“That’s the girl from your Soc class that asked you out,” he asks quietly, tired but still bright eyes searching his face. “She’s beautiful.”

Derek shrugs, heart pounding. “Yeah, Braeden. She’s cool.”

“Cool and gorgeous, and you turned her down?”

“Yes.” 

Stiles bites as his lip and fidgets, scooting closer to him, but haltingly, unsure and nervous. Derek can hardly breathe, everything around them disappearing, his world narrowing to Stiles and Stiles alone, on the precipice they seem to have found themselves on, that they’ve been hurtling towards since that first day when their eyes met. Derek's breathing feels shallow, gravity shifting and electricity snapping between them.

“Is she right?” Stiles’ whisper is featherlight on his reddened mouth, and Derek needs so badly to kiss him. “You turned her down for me?”

“Yes,” Derek admits _,_ the word barely off his tongue before Stiles is kissing him, mouth hot and soft on his just like Derek imagined, the delighted moan of pleasure he makes more than he ever could have hoped for. It takes a hot buzzing moment of shock before he can respond, give in and kiss him back the way he’s been aching to, pressing his tongue against Stiles’ lower lip in question, desperate to taste more of him. 

But Stiles pulls back, eyes huge, pupils blown wide. “You’re kissing me back,” he asks, dazed.

“I never not want to kiss you,” Derek pants, nearly disoriented with lust, with want, with _Stiles_.

~*~

They’re barely even in their room when the clothes start coming off, hands eager and greedy and racing with need after months of denial. Derek kicks the door closed behind him and then Stiles is _there_ , hot and sturdy against him.

After being kindly asked to the leave the student lounge for making out on the couch, they didn’t even have to ask each other if they were going to skip English, stumbling back to the house with intertwined hands and sloppy kisses.

“You’re so beautiful,” Stiles whines, like it hurts him, when Derek pulls his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor so he can finish unbuttoning Stiles’.

“I want you to fuck me,” Derek answers, pushing him towards his bed, months of pent-up need breaking his carefully cultivated dam of stoic self-control now that he knows Stiles wants him too.

“Oh holy fuck, Der,” Stiles moans, oh-so-sweet, long fingers scrambling at the fly of his khakis. 

Soon they’re naked on Stiles’ unmade bed, and he’s hovering over him, looking down into his glittering honeyed eyes, giving them both a moment to catch their breath, sighing in utter contentment when Stiles reaches up to stroke his beard. Derek leans down to kiss his neck, kissing his supple skin, cock throbbing when Stiles moans and ruts up against him in response, his long, cut dick sliding against Derek’s thigh. He kisses up to his earlobe and over onto his cheek, finally tasting those sweet moles, finally feeling the rough scratch of his uneven scruff against his lips.

“God, Derek,” he huffs into his hair, hands running eagerly down his back, giving his ass tentative, exploratory squeezes. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this, how much I want you.”

Derek nibbles into the divot just above his collarbone. “I think I do,” he counters, rolling his hips so his achingly hard cock, tip wet, slides into the groove of his hip, leaving a trail of his slick. “Wasn’t sure if you wanted me,” he whispers, kissing down his chest, licking the coarse spray of dark hair between his pecs. 

Stiles laughs like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “My life these past few months has been a tragic failure of trying to not want you,” he mumbles, hands moving up to tangle in his hair. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” he adds, still quiet, but clear and earnest, heartfelt.

“Neither do I,” Derek says hurriedly, fear souring his heart just at the suggestion. “Our friendship means everything to me, Stiles.” He kisses him again, soft, almost chaste this time. “You mean everything to me,” he adds in a hushed whisper, searching his face in the dim room, lit once again only by the rainbow lights.

“Let’s promise, then. Promise that no matter what happens with us, with…whatever this is, that we’ll still always be friends, okay?”

“I promise.” 

“I promise.”

This time, his kiss isn’t chaste at all, his body alive with fiery heat, starving for Stiles, his lips wet and sensuous against that mouth that has haunted his every waking thought for months, imploring, needing Stiles to _feel_ the truth of his promise.

Stiles is panting when Derek pulls away from his mouth and moves back down his body, salivating for him. He suckles at his nipples, eyes rolling back in his head when each one, in turn, goes stiff and eager against his tongue, Stiles moaning from deep in his chest. “Fuck, Derek,” he huffs, voice raw and husky. He licks down his chest to the dark hair he’s been dying to taste, settling between his legs. “You’re like my best friend, but I, like, also want to give you orgasms until you cry.”

Derek smothers a loud laugh into his stomach, soaking up the delicious sound of Stiles’ echoing laughter. This, _this_ , is extraordinary, and new, laughter and comfort and complete ease during sex, and Derek wants more of it, wants it forever. “I think that might be love,” he ventures, bold.

Stiles’ reply is lost in his gasping cry of pleasure when Derek takes his cock into his mouth, sucking eagerly as he swallows him down. He works him with his hands too, jacking his lovely, cut dick as he bobs up and down, tongue flicking and pressing and sliding, looking up at him from under his lashes, wanting to watch his taut abs flex and twitch, his hips roll, his hands twist in the sheets as he comes undone under his mouth.

Derek pulls off just in time, pumping his heavy balls as Stiles sprays across his pecs, webbing his chest hair in white. He gets a hand on his own cock after rubbing it through Stiles’ mess, crawling back up his body, coming after only a few hard strokes, spilling creamy ribbons into the dark thatch of hair at the base of Stiles’ still-hard cock, capturing his mouth in a loving kiss.

  
________________________________

 

“I do love you,” Stiles murmurs, steadying himself, sliding a condom on over his flushed, hungry cock and drizzling it with lube, both from their Halloween prize.

(“Did you leave that there on purpose,” Derek asked, giggling, when Stiles reached for the jack o’lantern where he left it on top of the bookshelf between their beds, the candy long gone but condoms and lubes aplenty. “Maybe…” Stiles mumbled, letting Derek pull him to a tickling bear hug.)

He’s been slowly readying him, awed at how unspeakably gorgeous Derek is like this, spread out on Stiles’ bed, exquisite body cast in glimmering light, legs splayed wide and hips hitched up on a pillow, head thrown back in ecstasy as Stiles fingers him open. Stiles' heart races and flutters like crazy as he confesses the secret that’s been building inside of him since he first laid on eyes on him, his beautiful, perfect Derek. 

“I love you,” Derek whispers back, and Stiles falls to kiss the inside of his knee, closing his eyes against the too-perfect beauty of the moment.

He rises up and crawls on his knees, cock in hand, skin feeling too-tight and hot already, and fuck, he can hardly believe this is happening, that he gets to kiss Derek now, gets to touch him, gets to fuck him, gets to call him _his_.

“Stiles, please,” he whines, but somehow it still sounds like an order, because even vulnerable, Derek is still kinda terrifying. “I need you in me.” Derek rolls his hips back and spreads his legs wider, stretched wet hole winking at him, inviting. “Come on.” Stiles cries out, loud and shameless, overcome by the _tightwethot_ clench, by the the velvety sweet of Derek’s ass, accepting and pliant when he pushes into him. Derek’s hands are gripped around his biceps, chest flaked with Stiles’ come from his first orgasm rising and falling hard as he begs for more. _Holy fuck_ , he thinks absently, overwhelmed, settling his elbows on either side of Derek’s head and kissing him sloppily. In his more self indulgent moments he had imagined Derek as a needy, hungry bottom, but he never really thought there was any truth to his fantasies.

And this is even better than anything he cold have dreamed up, because Derek is solid and real underneath him, his arms dense and strong as he pulls Stiles closer, rocking his hips up to ask for more, a boy starving to be fucked. Stiles buries his face in his neck and thrusts hard, giving them both what they want. He keeps as steady a pace as he can, unable to stop kissing him, biting at his plump lower lip, hands pulling his hair to keep his eyes locked on his, drowning.

His orgasm sneaks up on him, bursting forth from his core and coiling through every fiber of his being, shimmering electric jolts that coil and spark and make him weak and loose-limbed, and then Derek’s coming too, big strong hands clutching at Stiles’ ass and yanking him closer, likes he’s trying to bring him in deeper, spilling hot and sticky between their sweaty bellies.

Stiles collapses in a heaving, pliant heap on top of him, gasping. Derek is panting too, arms heavy and languid when they come up to wrap him in a hug, squeezing him hard and holding him close, like he’s afraid to let go, until they’ve both managed to recover somewhat. Stiles pulls out, heart racing again and kissing the adorable pout off Derek’s lips when he mumbles about not wanting to be empty of him.

He ties off the condom and tosses it in the wastebasket and then crawls under the covers with Derek, who rolls to his side so they’re face-to face, curled towards each other, hands clasping together. “So,” Derek says after a while, when they’re on the verge of sleep, thumbing gentle circles on the back of Stiles’ hand, making him practically purr with contentment. “Do you think it was like this for Steve and Bucky the first time?”

Stiles would dissolve into a pile of giggles if he wasn’t already melted from the world-shattering sex, but even so, he still laughs in delight. “You’re such a _nerd_ ,” he scoffs.

Derek doesn’t deny it, just laughs right along with him and pulls him closer. Stiles presses up against him, awed, marveling at how lucky he is to have fallen in love with his best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Come [Tumble!](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/) I love prompts and chatting with my readers!
> 
> Oh, and here's the [amazing fanart](http://stereowire.tumblr.com/post/85593082988/stereowire-and-maybe-im-too-blind-to-see-the) by stereowire that inspired Derek's Stucky blowjob print!


End file.
